10,000
by vickitata14
Summary: Technology is not the friend of drunkards. America finds that out the hard way. Rated T for language; no slash.


**Okay, so Immortal x Snow and I were goofing around and I ended up writing this.**

 **I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

At 10 AM on an average Monday morning, England is sitting at breakfast. He's munching on scones and clotted cream and sipping his tea with a rather more self-satisfied air than usual. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he feels a smirk beginning to spread across his face when he sees the caller ID.

"Hello, America." Smugness practically oozes into the receiver. "What can I do for you?"

"Bro." America's voice croaks groggily from the other end of the line. "I need my money back."

England's smirk becomes a full-fledged grin. "Not a chance."

* * *

It started out innocently enough.

Actually, it started with America betting that he could outdrink France. In hindsight, this was a bad idea. Not only was France home to a multitude of fine alcoholic beverages, but he was centuries older than America, and had spent those centuries building up a threshold that the younger country was nowhere near rivaling. Perhaps America was not entirely to blame for not knowing his limits—his usual drinking partner was, after all, England—but anyone with half an ounce of common sense could've told him how it would end up when, after a couple beers, he extended his challenge.

"Please, America, you will only embarrass yourself," France had objected at first.

"Pfft," America waved dismissively. "I could kick your ass."

The gleam of competition sparked in the other nation's eyes, and he stuck out his hand. "You will regret this in the morning," was his only comment before he ordered their first round.

* * *

France practically had to carry America home. The already odious task was made even more unbearable by the fact that the poor smashed buffoon was absolutely convinced that he had won.

"Kicked your ass," he muttered to himself at random intervals. Then he would burst out laughing and only stop when he almost vomited.

"You're better'n England, ll'give ya that," he slurred as he stumbled along behind France's impatient stride, which only grew faster with each drunken giggle. "England gets drunker'n'a stump…no…s'wrong…dumber'n'a stump…no…"

As basic similes continued to elude America, France's pace continued to increase until he was dragging the other nation. This was made more difficult by the fact that America kept kicking his feet up and down like he was still walking. France was tempted at several points simply to drop him, but he knew that England would most likely give him hell if he found out that France had simply left America lying black-out drunk in the streets, so he persevered until finally they reached America's front door.

"You're home, America," he informed his companion, loudly and with exaggerated patience.

"Heheheh kicked your ass," was the only reply he got.

France gritted his teeth. "Do you have your keys, America?"

"Mmmm in m'pocket." He gestured vaguely in the direction of his pants.

"Can you get them out?"

America reached for his front pocket but missed the opening, hand skating down the front of his pants leg. He reeled backward slightly, eyes wide and unfocused.

"S'meone sewed m'pocket shut!"

France groaned.

"Must've been England…dumb stump…heheheh."

"Why don't you try again."

"Heheheheheheheheh."

"Oh for heaven's sakes!" France quickly shoved his hand into America's pocket and extracted his keys.

He half wanted to just open the door and leave America lying in the entrance hall to wake up to the hangover and sore muscles that he deserved. He couldn't quite bring himself to do it, however, and he supported the other country into his living room. He sat him down on the couch, then went to the kitchen to get him a large (plastic) cup of water.

When he returned, America had his phone balanced on his knee, and he was looking curiously at the screen, head tilted to one side.

"Hey France, lookit this!"

France approached the couch cautiously, suspecting that whatever America wanted him to see, he would seriously regret looking at it. To his relief, however, the phone was only opened to a conversation with England on a messenger app that contained no obscene or ridiculous images. To be honest, he wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to be looking at.

"That's very nice, America," he said, "Now have some of this water and go lie down."

"No but France look!"

He punched a few keys on his phone then showed France a screen reading in large blue type, simply, "$10,000." As France looked on, bemused, America began to giggle uncontrollably.

"Chugeddit?"

France shook his head.

"S'a joke! Ima send England," he stopped to squint at the screen, which swam before his eyes, "Ten thousan' dollars!"

America threw back his head and howled with laughter. France blinked several times.

"Pardon me?"

"Ima send England—"

"Yes, yes, I understood that part. What I fail to understand is how this is a joke."

"B'cause—" America could barely speak for giggling, "B'cause, ll'wake up in the mornin'n'be like 'Whoa ten thousan' dollars! Where'd'a'get ten thousan' dollars? Dunno!' Dumb stump!"

The drunken country collapsed on the couch in paroxysms of laughter. At the tip of France's tongue were at least ten reasons why this was, in fact, _not_ a hilarious joke, and he was about to list them all, when he stopped. An endless refrain of "kicked your ass," was running circles around his head in a tuneless chant, and all of a sudden he desperately wanted America to get a little more comeuppance in the morning than a headache and a bad taste in his mouth. So he rearranged his face from a slightly paternal frown to a conspiratorial grin.

"You're right, America. That's a wonderful joke."

America bobbed his head enthusiastically. "See? Told'ya!"

And with a flourish he hit send. A screen with a lot of numbers and the command, "confirm your credit card information," appeared, and all France's dreams were coming true. America was actually about to send England 10,000 dollars. He hit "confirm," and the deed was done. France smirked.

"Great job, America. England will be so annoyed."

The other country nodded, still giggling. He was still giggling softly in his sleep when France finally left the house.

"Idiot," he muttered to himself as he descended the front porch steps, "Nobody kicks France's ass."

* * *

The next morning, America awoke with a prodigious headache and a mysterious green glow at the upper edge of his vision. With a considerable effort, he lifted his hand to his forehead and found a large green sticky note there, which, on first examination, appeared to be covered with nothing but strange black loops. As his eyes focused, however, he could make out France's elaborate calligraphy.

 _You lost our bet and sent England $10,000. Have a lovely day._

America scoffed. He distinctly remembered beating France, and he certainly didn't remember sending England anything. He picked up his phone from where it was lying on the floor next to the couch. Twitter updates. Boring. Canada updated his Facebook status. Boring. Missed call from the secretary of state. Boring.

Text message from England.

An irrational sense of foreboding stole over America. He opened the message, which simply read, _Why thank you, little brother._ His dread increasing, he looked back at the previous message.

There it was. _Transaction complete. $10,000 sent._

If he wasn't so dehydrated, America could have cried.

* * *

"Come on, England," America pleads through his headache, "I need that money back, or I'll be in huge trouble with the President."

"Bollocks. You haven't had access to the National Treasury since the Prohibition. It's your own money."

"IT'S TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!"

"Which you so generously gave to me." England spreads a liberal amount of cream on a scone and takes a bite. He was originally going to save some for tomorrow, but now he can always buy more.

America splutters on the other end for a few minutes, losing any coherent speech to the fog in his brain. "Well—well—well—you know what? Fuck you, Arthur."

"Same to you, Alfred," replies England cheerfully, and he hangs up the phone.

He's had his eye on this beautiful handmade suit for a while. But then again, perhaps he'll just use the money to make more scones. He could send some to America.

He opens his phone and looks down at the number on the screen. He grins. _Why not both?_

* * *

France gets a text a short while later.

 _Screw you, man_

 _It was your idea_ , France responds, chuckling to himself as he presses "Send."

America doesn't respond for some time. He tries to build up a head full of steam, get angry and come up with a witty retort, but his brain won't cooperate. He grumbles incoherently for a few minutes before sending the only comeback he has left.

 _Whatever. I still kicked your ass._

* * *

 **Apparently I have a thing for writing drunk Hetalia characters...Oh well, it's fun :D**

 **So apparently facebook messenger now has this thing where you can send money over messenger. Immortal x Snow and I were discussing this and she commented that it would be a bad thing to have access to while drunk. And so I said "That's totally something America would do. Get drunk and send England a lot of money, somehow thinking it was a hilarious joke!" One thing led to another and all of a sudden it's 2 in the morning and I've written this. Total crack, but a lot of fun to write.**

 **Half the credit (at least) goes to my dear Snow, and full credit for "Screw you, man."**


End file.
